


Abracadabra

by floosilver8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Halloween, Magic, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlollyween, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Teenlock, Witches, virgin lights the candle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2386193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floosilver8/pseuds/floosilver8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0107120/">Hocus Pocus</a></em> (1993) Sherlolly AU.</p><p>Teenage Sherlock, John, and Molly accidentally wake three long-dead witches from their graves. Havoc ensues, things must be righted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1614 AD

**Author's Note:**

> Quick geography and history lesson!
> 
> For those not familiar, Great Britain did experience a few bouts of witch trials similar to the ones most Americans have heard of in Salem, Massachusetts – though quite a bit earlier interestingly enough. The most famous in England took place in the borough of Pendle – found within the district of Lancashire in 1612. [More here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pendle_witches). For the purposes of this fic we’re fudging the geography and pretending that Pendle is much more populated than it actually is, and I've stolen all geography from Barley - the nearest town to Pendle Hill. 
> 
> We’re also pretending that Halloween is a much bigger deal in the UK than it actually is. 
> 
> It's fluffy crack. Just go with it.

Something had woken Mary up. She lifted her head from the scratchy pillow to listen, and heard nothing but the wind in the trees and her own breathing.

But that couldn’t be right. She shot a hand out to reach for her sister, with whom she shared the bed, and found only empty space. The straw from the mattress caught on her palm and panic tightened around her chest. 

“Abby?” Mary whispered. “Abigail Grace Roslyn Adams, answer me right now!” Nothing. There wasn’t a sound. Not even the wind.

“Hehehe,” a giggle from far away drifted in through the open window. It was too cold outside to be open. _Why_ was it open?!

Mary bolted from the bed in full panic now. She shoved her feet into her boots, not stopping to lace them, and grabbed the blanket from their bed before rushing out the front door. Abby did _not_ just wander off! And a thought that Mary did not want to entertain drifted through her mind.

That was not Abigail's giggle.

\----

The Samlesbury sisters were known throughout Pendle, Lancashire, but no one had ever actually seen them. Few had seen their cottage deep in the woods, and fewer still had dared to knock on their door. Rumour had it that those who did, never came back.

But when Mary bolted outside and followed the trampled path through the field she knew immediately where it was taking her, and she had to press on. Abby was her only sister and a bit naive, even for 13 years old. Being almost five years older, Mary had looked after her quite a bit. So she just couldn’t...well, she didn’t want to think about it, actually.

Light shone through the old cottage windows unnaturally. The sisters must have had every candle they owned burning and then some. Mary could hear chatting and occasional laughter that turned her stomach. There was definitely something going on, but she dared not just barge in the door. She needed to assess the situation before getting both Abby and herself killed.

Tying the thin, tartan blanket securely around her torso and shoulder like a sash, she tiptoed around the side of the house and scaled the waterwheel to reach the loft window. Her movements were incredibly light for (technically) an adult, but then Mary had always been the best at climbing and jumping, and most things, really. She had spied on more than one villager who was up to no good, and often found a way to get them caught without anyone knowing she had a hand in it.

This time, she’d have to use her cleverness for a rescue mission, because sure enough, Abby was inside the cottage, sitting slack-faced in the middle of the room.

The sisters were more or less what Mary had pictured. Their dresses were about as tatty as she had expected, their faces very wrinkled, and their backs hunched. The auburn-haired one bent over a rather large tome, tapping her chin with her finger and grinning, was obviously the eldest. The other two were thinner than her, one was brunette the other black haired. It struck Mary that in her younger years the former sister must have been very pretty. But age does catch up to us all in the end, and the evil glint in her eye while she carefully measured ingredients from phials did nothing to improve her current look.

“Sisters!” the eldest exclaimed, “Gather ‘round.”

“Coming, Em,” the other two chorused and bumped into each other while scrambling to where the third was now standing by the large cauldron over the fire.

“I noticed Phillipa isn’t helping,” the brunette snarled.

“I lured the child here!” the black haired one - apparently Phillipa - huffed and adjusted her corset, pushing her ample bosom up even further.

“Enough, you two. ‘Tis time,” the one called Em began reciting a rather strange recipe from the weathered book. “‘Add two drops of boil’,” she instructed and the yet unnamed sister carried out the action. “‘Add a dash of pox and a dead man’s toe.’ Make it a fleshy one, Anthea.”

“ _Dead man’s toe?_ ” Mary thought horrified.

“Dead man’s toe,” Anthea repeated and dropped the phalange into the pot.

“Dead man’s toe!!” Phillipa sing-songed and bounced up and down. She seemed to do it just to see her breasts jiggle.

“Shut up, I need to concentrate,” Em scolded her sisters. “What next? ‘Green newt Saliva’,” Anthea retrieved a phial from the shelf and measured the correct amount in a cup before handing it to Em to pour in. “And ‘One thing more, and all is done. A bit of thine own tongue.’” She paused and pulled a face but seemed to give in with a roll of her eyes. She bit down dramatically and spit into the pot, which immediately glowed and sizzled.

“Oh, Em,” Phillipa gushed. “Thou art a gifted genius!”

Em smiled proudly and stood up straighter. “Fetch me a flask,” she ordered, and a moment later Anthea had placed one in her open hand. Em dipped a ladle into the pot and filled the glass vessel quickly. “Art thou ready, sisters?”

“Yes, Em,” they said in unison.

The three sisters turned and all finally zeroed-in on the only other living creature in the house, Abby. They stalked over to her chair, their faces set in evil glares.

“Open up your mouth,” Em snarled to Abby, shoving the flask between her lips and tipping it bottom up.

Mary scrambled through the window and landed hard in the loft above where the sisters were working, “NO!” she shouted. The Samlesbury sisters glanced up in unison, matching looks of surprise on their faces. Their second of hesitation gave Mary enough time to plan her next move. She threw the closest object (a sack of chicken feathers) at them and slid down the support beam to the ground while they scrambled and sputtered.

“Get her, you fools!” Em shouted, feathers getting stuck on her lips and in her eyes. Her sisters grabbed blindly for Mary but she was too quick and evaded their grasp.

She reached Abby's chair and grabbed at her sister - who was very still and increasingly pale. "Abby!" Mary tried shaking her, but Abby's head just flopped forward. Steeling herself to pick her sister up and carry her from the cottage, a sudden shock to her spine stopped Mary in her tracks. Her body went completely numb and she was spun around by a force outside herself.

Em stood menacingly with her arms up and her hands twisted into claws, purple sparks streaking between her fingers. She scowled at Mary and her sisters soon found their footing as well. All three witches - _witches? Really? No, Mary don't be absurd that's just a child's over active imagination!_ \- All three sisters stood to their full height, eyes narrowed to angry slits, nostrils flared.

With a flick of Em's wrist Mary shot backwards, meeting the wall rather hard. Em lifted her arm and Mary felt like she was being lifted off the floor. When she realised her feet were no longer touching the ground, panic and disbelief began to blur together. This was not happening. This was not possible. She was unable to work her limbs try as she might, and she couldn't fight against whatever force was holding her high on the wall.

"What are you going to do to her Em?" Anthea asked stepping forward.

"Nothing yet," Em sneered. "First, she's going to watch her sister die."

Mary gasped - as best she could with the invisible barrier inhibiting her movements. Em whirled back around to face Abby, still slumped in her chair and now glowing faintly blue.

"Take my hands, sisters," Em commanded, holding her palms up. Anthea and Phillipa joined Em, taking her outstretched hands and towering over Abby. Em leaned forward, her sisters mimicking the action, and they all inhaled deeply in unison. "Oh!" Em exclaimed softly, and Mary could see the wicked grin that had replaced her scowl. They leaned in again and filled their lungs once more, giggling with their light exhales.

Abby's blue glow faded slightly and by the sisters' third inhale, had disappeared completely. The tears sprung from Mary's eyes automatically because she knew. She just knew that Abby was dead and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Em straightened suddenly and cackled loudly, her sisters' accompanying giggles turning harsh in Mary's ears.

"We're young!" Phillipa exclaimed, spinning in a circle. Mary could see that they did in fact look healthier. They had no wrinkles or streaks of grey in their hair any longer, and seemed straighter and full of energy.

Em turned slowly, assessing her slightly thinner self and reaching for a looking glass. "Well, youn _ger_." She hit the last syllable hard. "But it's a start!" she cackled again. "We have all the children of Pendle to feed on next!"

"Over my deceased body, you _hags_!" Mary finally found her voice, struggling again against the wall. The witches turned their attention back to her and Mary momentarily wished she hadn't said anything at all.

"I know just what to do with you. You're not to die," Em snarled, releasing the force holding Mary up. Mary fell to the floor with a hard thump, pain radiating through her body. "No, your punishment is to live forever with the guilt of failing to save thy sister."

"As what Em?" Phillipa gasped merrily.

"Sisters, jump back!" Em chanted and the other two hopped a step backwards. "Twist the bones and bend the back," she recited.

"Itch-it-a-cop-it-a. Mel-a-ka-mys-tic-a," Anthea and Phillipa chanted together.

"Trim her of her baby fat."

"Itch-it-a-cop-it-a. Mel-a-ka-mys-tic-a."

"Give her fur black as black. Just. Like. Thisssssssssss." The sisters hissed in unison as they bent slightly forward and sneered at Mary.

Mary suddenly noticed she was shrinking into the floor. Everything seemed to tower over her and her body contorted painfully and shrank as well.

The sisters straightened as one, cackling loudly together, arching their backs in glee. Mary spun around, no longer held by the invisible force, and realised she had used all of her limbs to do so. She sat back on her bottom to lift one hand off the floor. Mary screeched in shock to see a paw where her fingers should be, and fur the same colour as her blonde hair spread up her arm. A cat?! She had been turned into a cat!

A loud banging on the cottage door startled the sisters into silence. "Open! Daughters of darkness!" a familiar voice bellowed through the wood. "Witches! Open this door!"

The three sisters rushed to barricade the door with their bodies as further loud bangs shook the cottage. "Witches?!" Em exclaimed. "There be no witches here, sir! Just three old spinster ladies spending a quiet evening at home."

"Sucking the lives out of little children!" Phillipa gloated too loudly.

Just then, the door creaked and cracked, the villagers on the other side obviously using an axe to break it down. Mary shot under a chair and hid as the commotion continued. The sisters fell backwards as several people stormed in and restrained them, wielding crosses and bibles. Mary easily picked out her father's feet, and thought she recognised those of her brother as well.

 

After the sisters were dragged outside and nooses placed around their necks Mary dared to watch from the shrubs and tall grass.

"Mycroft, Anthea and Phillipa Samlesbury, you stand accused of maleficium and found guilty," Mary's father, the local judge, proclaimed. "You have killed my youngest, Abigail, and taken her sister as well. I ask thee a final time, where art my daughter Mary?" His voice shook and Mary saw her mother step forward to hold his arm.

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary," Em mocked as her sisters giggled. "I know not...cat's got my tongue!" The three witches burst into laughter.

"Then you shall die by hanging for your crimes. This last day of October, in the year of our lord 1614," he intoned solemnly.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the small gathering, knocking Em's spell book out of the hands of the young man holding it. It opened on the ground in front of the sisters and several pages turned before coming to rest.

"Ah, fools! But you are mistaken!" Em declared, reading from the book. "On All Hollow’s Eve when the moon is round, we shall be summoned from underground. And the lives of all your children shall be mine!" she cackled.

Mary's father sneered and brought his hand up in signal. He dropped it a moment later, the executioner knocking the barrels out from under the sisters' feet, their nooses tightening and breaking their necks. With a few spasms the witches soon stilled and were dead.


	2. 2014 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you didn’t miss that Mycroft is the eldest Salemsbury sister. So in this AU, Sherlock is an only child.***

"And so," Ms. Stapleton smiled as she walked dramatically through the rows of her pupils at their desks. The room was otherwise completely silent, most everyone's attention focused on their teacher, "the Samlesbury sisters were dead and buried. Poor Mary Morstan Adams never to be seen again. And for centuries people walking around Pendle Hill have reported a voice drifting through the air on Halloween night saying....Boo!!!" A crepe streamer launched from her hand and landed on John Watson's desk, startling him. The other students burst into merry laughter, and John grinned a second later.

Sherlock Holmes, however, scoffed and clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"Ah, I see we have a sceptic among us. Please do enlighten us to your objection Mr. Holmes."

"There is nothing to enlighten you with, Miss. You know perfectly well it was all puritanical nonsense to keep citizens in line for the greater good of the town. We see the same scare tactics used in the media today. We're fed lies, or allowed to believe in untruths, just to frighten small-minded people into maintaining the status-quo. 'For Queen and country' and all that rubbish."

"It also happens to be based in fact," a quiet voice behind him spoke up. He reluctantly turned to face Molly Hooper, the source of the voice. "The graves, home, and belongings of the Samlesbury sisters still exist in situ in Pendle Forrest. The area is a closed English Heritage property now, but my father ran the site until his death ten years ago. There were many sightings of a blonde cat, and several unexplained incidents over the years. The women may have been persecuted for being outsiders, but they _did_ exist. And a mass 17th century grave was found in the woods in the early 1960s. The remains all belonged to children, and no causes of death could be determined." Molly paused to register the disgusted faces of her fellow classmates. Well, all except Sherlock who was smirking slightly. "I, uh, saw the original coroner's reports..." She trailed off lamely.

Sherlock sniffed and returned to his neutral and disinterested look. “Well if they return tonight please do let us know before you alert the media.” The sniggers from their classmates put him off. He hadn’t meant for it to be a funny remark. Molly glanced around with a frown and didn’t say anything else.

The bell signalling the end of their school day sounded a few seconds later and Sherlock noticed Molly move rather quickly out the door. He had the sudden urge to go after her, because something like regret had settled in his chest. But John stood in front of him a second later, giving him a tired look.

“Nice going,” John teased. “Looks like I picked the perfect person to help me fit in here.”

“You don’t need me for that at all.” Sherlock stood and began to walk with John out of the school. “From what I’ve observed you’ve got on quite well with Sara...and Danielle...and that American exchange student Allison. Your family moved-in when? Two weeks ago?”

“A month, Sherlock. I’ve been here a month.” John rolled his eyes.

John and his parents had moved to Pendle and into the house next to the Holmes family’s just after term started. Sherlock was rather pleased to find that John was his age. John’s sister Harriet was three years older and finishing university in Glasgow so Sherlock hadn’t met her yet, but she was expected to arrive that afternoon just for the weekend.

Sherlock had no siblings and his parents lived in London for much of the year. It had been their routine for the past fourteen years to settle Sherlock at their second home in Pendle and leave him there with his nanny Mrs. Hudson until the holiday breaks. Well, he was much too old for a nanny now so she was really more of a housekeeper. As long as he kept her informed of his academic performance, and always answered his mobile when she rang, she let him be. At 17 years old, he didn’t really have a curfew and as far as she knew, he never missed class.

Turning the corner away from school Sherlock almost ran right into Molly standing behind the hedgerow.

“Oh!” she exclaimed tipping slightly to one side to keep balanced.

“Molly!” Sherlock gasped trying to help keep the books from toppling out of her hands.

“Sorry,” she said quietly when everything was settled.

“Don’t be sorry,” John corrected, “he ran into you! He should be the one doing the apologising.” He turned to Sherlock pointedly, “Apologise to the lady,” he added with a tip of his head.

Sherlock glared back at John. Of course he was going to apologise to Molly. He had no problem accepting some blame in this situation, but having John point it out was rather embarrassing somehow. Sherlock genuinely felt bad for startling her - and worse, making her almost drop her books. “Sorry,” he said eventually, much more stiffly than he meant.

“S’ok,” she smiled sweetly at him.

Sherlock could only stare at her in awe. Her brown eyes were a beautiful compliment to her silky brown hair. Had he never noticed before? No, of course he had. They’d known each other for a few years. Well, not known very well, but known _of_. Sherlock had first registered her presence when they took the same double chemistry period. Molly had been the only one in their class to get higher marks than him. And she excelled in her other subjects as well. She did not appear to have the same vapid or vain personality as some of the other girls in their year, and certainly didn’t mix with them to a significant degree. No, Molly was not at all like other girls...or anyone else for that matter.

He realised with a start that John and Molly were still conversing, and Sherlock had been staring at her the whole time. She shifted her gaze from John to Sherlock and back again, smiling easily and nodding at whatever John was saying.

“Yeah, we’d love to go!” John exclaimed. “Thanks so much for inviting us.”

“Not a problem! Be sure to wear fancy dress, it’s just more fun that way,” her eyes crinkled with joy.

 _Oh_ , it was lovely to watch. _Wait, what?_ Sherlock shook his head, trying to sort through the pieces of conversation he had just filtered out. _Costumes?_

“Surely will,” John agreed happily. “See you tonight then, cheers.”

“Ta,” she gave a small wave and walked away.

“What just happened?” Sherlock asked hurriedly.

“We’re going to a Halloween party at Mike Stamford’s house. His parents are going out to that thing at the Inn like mine. So pack your party bags ‘cause tonight’s gonna to be a large one. Be lucky! Oi! Oi!” John put on a voice, obviously quoting some pop culture thing Sherlock had never seen.

“She said something about fancy dress?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, picking up the pace.

“Of course,” John shrugged. “It’s Halloween. It’s just a bit of fun. I have to think of someone to be now. Who are you going as?”

Sherlock just shot John a stern look. He would not be dressing up as anyone. In fact, he didn’t actually want to go to the party at all.  John had a strange way of constantly pulling Sherlock into social situations. Maybe their quick friendship wasn’t such a good idea.

When they reached their front gardens John implored Sherlock to come up with _something_ as a costume, and promised to be over right after tea.

Sherlock stood in the kitchen, stealing one of the mince pies Mrs. Hudson had prepared, while she chatted endlessly and finished dressing the roast. 

“...Mrs. Turner invited me, you see, and I just couldn’t say no. She gets so lonely and doesn’t step out much at all. But you’ll be fine, won’t you? Ask John to sleep over and keep you company if you want. There are sweets in the cupboard if you’re peckish later and more pies of course.” Sherlock filtered out the rest of her blather. She wouldn’t be home until late, that’s all he needed to know...not that that even mattered to him really.

After a quick supper he trudged up to his room, finished his homework in 10 minutes and sat staring out the window for a bit. Usually he'd spend the time perfecting his memory techniques, or practising the violin but he just couldn't be bothered today. John was the new kid in town so it didn't make sense that Sherlock should feel like the odd one out of the two of them. He constantly told himself that he didn't care, and their peers were idiots, and yet...

John bounded up the stairs and into Sherlock's room. He had changed out of his school uniform, wearing jeans and a casual button-up shirt. "Harriet's just arrived and she's stroppy. I had to get out. Did you come up with your costume yet? I didn't get a chance to grab anything."

"No," Sherlock said pointedly, going to his desk and opening his laptop.

John flopped on Sherlock’s bed, “Have you partied at Stamford’s before? Will there be many girls there? There’s a girl called Jeanette in my maths period who’s rather fit...”

Sherlock ignored John’s continued blathering and updated his study of tobacco ash. He had catalogued the differences in almost 100 types so far, and was working to get his hands on several more new brands.

It was apparently two hours later when Sherlock was shaken back to attention by John.

“You ready to go, mate?” John asked, blinking down at his friend.

“Go?” Sherlock noticed the darkened room and obvious passing of time.

“Stamford’s party. Unless you have ideas we’ll just have to go without fancy dress. Molly will likely be slightly disappointed but nothing doing. C’mon.” John made to exit Sherlock’s room.

Molly? Molly would be disappointed in him?

The sound of Sherlock’s chair crashing to the floor brought John back in the doorway. He could only see his friend’s backside peaking out of the wardrobe in which he was rummaging very deeply. “Sherlock?” he asked cautiously.

“Put this on,” Sherlock commanded, popping out of the cupboard and immediately tossing something to John.

John caught the object artfully then held it up and reshaped it a bit. “A flat cap?”

“Good observation,” Sherlock responded sarcastically, straightening and donning his own selected hat, a deer stalker. “There. Easy fancy dress that is not completely ridiculous.”

“All right,” John said, a little unconvinced. “I guess they’re fine.”

“Oh, for God’s sake John, you can paint a moustache on your lip with one of Mrs. Hudson’s eye pencils if it will make you feel better. Though I can already tell you it will look terrible.”

“Cheers, mate,” John rolled his eyes, obviously not going to take his friend up on the offer. “Besides, the girls may not want to snog me with it on.”

“Can’t have that,” Sherlock whispered to himself, quickly exiting the room.


	3. Monster Mash

Mike Stamford’s house was already buzzing with energy and noise despite the somewhat early hour. A group of their classmates dressed as famous footballers lingered in the front garden playing keepy-uppy and carrying on like typical loud teenagers.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock sighed while rolling his eyes. John nudged him hard, in a clear gesture to lighten up. Pulling his deerstalker further down his face they pushed on into the dimly-lit house.

The Stamford residence was much like other row houses in the area. The narrow staircase leading up to the other floors was directly across from the door. The sitting room in the front of the house was visible on the left from the foyer, and the kitchen was tucked away at the back of the house.

Students in varying states of fancy dress were littered throughout the ground floor, which was decked out in orange and black streamers and assorted other decorations. An iPod dock on the fireplace mantle in the sitting room provided the requisite popular music selections, but large speakers had obviously been brought in from somewhere else to increase the volume.

Sherlock scowled while scanning the sitting room. There was a reason he didn’t interact much with his fellow pupils, and he was witnessing all of those reasons now.

“Let’s get a drink, yeah?” John nudged Sherlock yet again. He led the way through to the kitchen where other people had emerged with beverages.

The kitchen was fairly large, brightly lit, and a bit quieter than the sitting room. The small dining table had been pushed against the far wall and held chests of ice and drinks. John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and bee-lined them both to the tins of beer. John helped himself and tried pushing a lager onto Sherlock but he didn’t take it. The last thing he wanted was to take part in such a ridiculous teenage pastime. Instead, he observed the few students occupying space in the room. Mike - dressed in faux-bloodied hospital scrubs - stood by the sink with the Lestrade kid - wearing a bobby’s helmet - and Molly Hooper.

Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment as he watched her. She fiddled with a pink alcopop and smiled nervously while the boys spoke. It was obvious to anyone that she felt awkward in social situations. She was dressed as a witch, in a rather low-cut black dress, her honey-brown hair cascading down her back under a pointy witch’s hat. She wore no makeup, and looked as lovely as always.

After a few seconds she turned her head slightly and finally caught Sherlock’s gaze. He panicked for a moment, realising he had been full-on staring, but when her eyes brightened and her smiled turned genuine he internally relaxed. On the outside of course he hadn’t changed his expression at all, and just nodded curtly to her.

Mike caught Molly’s movement and followed her line of sight to John and Sherlock. “Heeeey!” he shouted jovially, waving them over. “You actually got him out! Ten points to John Watson!”

John bowed dramatically and doffed his cap while Mike and Lestrade patted him on the back. Sherlock remained stoic and waited for their revelry to calm down, ignoring Lestrade’s nudges. Molly giggled softly and took a sip of her drink, licking her lips as she brought the bottle back down. Sherlock stared at her little pink tongue – made pinker by the colouring of her drink – and didn’t realise for a moment that he was being further talked about.

“I don’t know _how_ many school-sanctioned events he’s bunged off,” Lestrade said.

“Oh gosh,” Mike gasped, “remember the time he set the Anatomy lab’s frogs free in assembly, just to irritate Headmistress Adler?”

“That’s right!” Lestrade, John and Mike roared with laughter.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed. Before he could retort, Jeanette Chaplin - dressed as a Disney princess - and Sally Donovan - dressed as a superhero Sherlock didn’t know the name of - strolled into the kitchen and up to their group.

“What’s so funny?” Sally asked.

“Nothing really, just Sherlock,” Mike provided.

“That’s nothing new,” Sally rolled her eyes and Jeanette giggled loudly.

 “Sally, Jeanette, drinks?” John asked before Sherlock could say something cutting. He’d gotten remarkably good at reading his friend and knowing when to change the subject. It was part of the reason why Sherlock had continued to associate with John.

Sherlock leaned against the kitchen counter while everyone else conversed and laughed around him. Not feeling it necessary to participate, he filtered the conversation and tried to pick up clues about Mike’s parents’ marriage based solely on the state of the kitchen. The cupboards were painted white with only a few smudges from wear. The floor was a sparkling linoleum, and everything was generally tidy. So it was safe to conclude that the marriage was a happy one. But of course, Sherlock already knew that because he’d met them once, and Mike was well adjusted of course.

He moved on to trying to deduce who at the party was failing their courses, but that didn’t last long either. Sherlock sighed audibly, annoyed that he couldn’t even distract himself with deductions. A slight movement to his right caught his attention. Molly had picked up a plastic cup and filled it with water at the nearby sink. She turned back and picked up Sherlock’s arm, gently placing the cup in his hand. Sherlock scowled in confusion at the cup. He wasn’t thirsty, why would she do that?

“Just hold it,” Molly whispered. “You’ll feel less self-conscious.”

Sherlock was taken aback by her kind gesture. He hadn’t felt left out at all, but looking around now – and there were far more people in the house than there were a minute ago – he realised he did look like the odd man out without a drink in his hand. Actually, no, they’d been at the party for nearly two hours. He faced Molly again, actually feeling more at ease than he expected, and gave her a small smile of thanks.

She beamed back at him, her eyes crinkling prettily, and held up her bottle of sugary pink booze. She tapped the neck of the bottle against the rim of his cup and said, “Cheers,” rather quietly before knocking it back. She moved slightly away to ask Sally about her gap-year plans.

Sherlock finally noticed that it was the same bottle she’d had earlier, and it was only now completely empty. He wondered if she’d go and get another one, and how long she planned on staying at the party. He thought about offering to get her one, but surely he’d be expected to also drink something stronger than water. But he didn’t want any alcohol. The few drinks he’d ever tried were all horrible and he couldn’t understand how anyone would subject their taste buds to that torture.

He was saved from having to think too much more on it when she finished her conversation, turned and fixed herself a cup of water as well. So she planned on staying a little while longer at least, and found alcohol to be not as appealing as everyone else at the party seemed to find it.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the others, minus Mike who had apparently drifted away some time ago. Lestrade and Sally stood sipping their drinks, while Jeanette and John flirted shamelessly.

“You’re lying!” Jeanette giggled and shoved John playfully. “You’re just trying to scare me.”

“I’m not!” he grinned. “Stapleton told this whole story about them. They sound like right old hags! Molly, didn’t you say they found bodies?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Molly provided.

“No!” Jeanette giggled again, clutching John’s arm. “You’re having me on.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock shouted, startling all of the small kitchen’s occupants. “No one is lying or trying to scare you. _Children_ tell stories of the Salemsbury sisters for crying out loud. There’s an empty cottage in the wood, isn’t there Molly?”

“Uh, yes,” she reluctantly admitted.

“Great!” Sherlock’s tone continued to be slightly mocking. “Let’s all go and see it so maybe you’ll shut up!”

Jeanette huffed and turned her nose up while everyone else gaped slightly or looked away awkwardly.

“Actually,” John spoke cautiously, “it _would_ be great to see it.”

Sherlock was shocked. That was not at all the reaction he was expecting to his outburst. He was never great at holding in his contempt for other people - it had gotten him in trouble more than a few times.

“But you’re still an arsehole for shouting at her,” John added quickly and pointedly. That was more like it.

“That would actually be really cool,” Sally spoke up, “especially on Halloween.” Jeanette softened considerably, probably since John was patting her arm gently. “I wish I could go with you, but I have to be home shortly.”

“That’s too bad, Sally,” John consoled. “Greg, will you come too?”

“No, that’s ok, you guys have fun. Let us know how it goes though, yeah?” Lestrade tipped the last of his lager back, and he and Sally drifted away into the sitting room together.

“Well that’s settled then,” John said after a second. “Just the four of us.”

Sherlock finally turned to face Molly, who had remained silent. “Is that...” he hesitated, suddenly nervous and slightly ashamed. “Is that okay?”

Molly looked up at him, anxiety written in her dark brown eyes. But before he could backtrack and tell everyone to sod off she said, “Okay. Let’s go.”


	4. Into The Woods

The walk to the edge of Pendle Forest wasn’t terribly long. Sherlock was probably the only one to find it tedious. John and Jeanette trailed behind, occasionally giggling and whispering. Sherlock led the way, being the only one with a torch, and Molly kept close to his side.

"We just take this path until it ends," Molly pointed to a dirt trail leading into the forest.

"Oh, wow," Jeanette gasped. "It's awfully dark in there."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. The town lights had stopped reaching them about one minute after they passed the last crossroad and the moonlight wouldn't be much defused in the sparse woods.

"It'll be fine," John reassured her, taking her hand. Jeanette giggled yet again.

"Shall we?" Molly interjected, stepping forward onto the path alone.

The small troupe set off again into the darkness, Jeanette gasping at every rustle of leaves and cricket chirp. The path wound around for several meters, and at one point was blocked off by a fallen tree.

"I thought you said this was a former English Heritage site. This doesn't seem very OHS compliant," John complained while climbing over the tree's fallen trunk.

"It was," Molly replied, struggling for a moment to get her sleeve free from a bit of loose bark. "But that was several years ago. Not that it was very easy to get to in the first place."

It wasn't long after that when the ancient cottage came into view. The roof thatching was in need of repair, and the gardens were thick with overgrown weeds. Everything exuded a general air of neglect.

"So," Molly spoke as they came to a stop at the front steps, "this is it."

"Nice," John remarked sarcastically.

"Gives me the creeps," Jeanette scowled.

"Yes, well, it looks different in the light I imagine," Molly defended the old building.  "Anyway, we know the sisters really lived here, although there’s no record of the cottage being built. They would have tended the gardens to provide for themselves. They may have kept pigs and chickens in the back. And that would have been the tree that the townspeople used as a makeshift gallows." Molly pointed to the prominent oak in the front garden.

In the same moment, Sherlock’s torch flickered and went out. He shook it a few times, attempting to readjust the batteries, to no avail. Everyone was looking at him expectantly, and just before he could reassure them that there was plenty of light to get back, a dark cloud rolled over the moon.

"I want to go back," Jeanette spoke up, nervously.

"It's okay," John reassured her.

"We haven't even gone inside yet," Sherlock complained.

"Inside?" Molly repeated.

Sherlock turned to face her, surprised that she could be at all dense. He opened his mouth to retort when the hedges rustled violently and a large animal sprung from its depth. Jeanette's scream was blood curdling, and before anyone could get a word in edgewise, she had taken off back down the path to the road.

"Jeanette!" John and Molly called after her, still both looking out for the animal in the darkness.

"For God's sake, calm down!" Sherlock scolded them. "It's only a squirrel." He pointed in the direction the - in actuality - small animal had scampered.

"Oh," John breathed a sigh of relief.

"Should we go after her?" Molly asked.

They all turned to see how far Jeanette had managed to get, and were surprised to not see a trace of her.

"Eh," John grunted noncommittally. "She _is_ on the hockey team." He looked to his friends for assurance. They both just shrugged. "I can give her a text to make sure she's safe." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began typing.

"Are we doing this?" Sherlock asked, turning back to the cottage. He stepped toward the front door confidently, as if nothing was going to stop him at this point. He tried the doorknob, even though he knew it would be locked.

Molly stepped up behind him, wringing her hands, obviously not sure they should go in. "Umm, there might be a key at my house," she offered, obviously trying to change the course of their night.

"Nonsense," Sherlock had already begun picking the modern lock with the tool set proffered from his coat pocket. With a few pokes and jostles it clicked back easily. "Voila," he said standing with a flourish.

John joined them on the small stoop finally, with a giant grin on his face. "Wicked!" he exclaimed. Molly turned to him pointedly. "Oh, and Jeanette's fine. But she never wants to see you again, Sherlock."

Sherlock was taken aback. How was any of her freak-out _his_ fault? He was about to retort as such when he realised he didn't care at all, shrugged instead and pushed the door open finally.

The inside was pitch black so Sherlock fumbled to find a light switch for a moment, feeling triumphant when he found one and the electricity still worked. The cottage seemed typical for its supposed age, at least architecturally. The furnishings, however, were a mix of modern and historical. The large fireplace held typically historical cooking implements, the sitting area had badly worn wooden chairs, but there were also many modern glass display cabinets holding random strange objects, modern souvenirs, and a cash point near the entrance.

Sherlock had to admit that it was fascinating. The contents didn't seem to be much disturbed, likely because the site hadn't been a successful one. The thick layer of dust over everything told him the last time anyone had set foot here was likely over ten years ago.

John stepped over to one large display cabinet under the loft and wiped his hand over the glass to better see inside. "Oh, cool!" he exclaimed reading the label, "The spell book! Ooooo," he continued jokingly, "it's the source of the witches' powers."

"It isn't real, John," Sherlock chided his friend, his initial interest in the cottage waning quickly.

"I know that," John replied slightly annoyed, but his attention was immediately drawn to something just next to him. A very yellowed and lumpy pillar candle, sat on a tall and ornate iron stand next to the loft's support column. A large label just behind it had a lengthy explanation apparently. John dusted it off and read it out loud, "'Black Flame Candle...said to be made from the fat of a hanged man. Blah, blah...legends of the Salemsbury sisters state that it will raise the sisters from the dead if lit by a virgin on Halloween night. English Heritage forbids open flames on all properties, however.'" John snickered and turned back to his friends, "Want to light it and meet the hags?"

Sherlock scowled and turned to check Molly's reaction. He found that she was still hovering in the doorway, arms crossed protectively over her chest, brow furrowed with anxiety under the witch’s hat she still wore. A hot wave of guilt washed over him. She very obviously did not want to be here. He should have taken a second to wonder if it was because she was afraid of the legend, of getting caught, or because of her late father's connection to the place. But he didn't. Instead, he fished a box of matches out of his pocket and tossed them to John. Maybe if he lit the candle quickly, they could be done and leave.

John caught the box deftly but hesitated. "Umm," he stalled, "I don't think I can _technically_ , um," he trailed off, looking guilty. "Molly?" he asked, looking at her hopefully, holding the matches up.

Sherlock whipped around in time to see her shocked expression of realisation morph into indignation. "The high importance placed on virginity is a disgusting patriarchal notion introduced simply to-" she began to answer -without actually answering if she could light the candle.

"I'll light it," Sherlock interrupted her, turning to take the box back from John. He didn't get very far because at that moment, a pale animal – decidedly larger than a squirrel - shot in through the door. Molly jumped, ending up much closer to Sherlock, and the animal pounced on John's outstretched arm.

In the shock of it, John lost his balance and fell to the floor. It became clear that the animal was an ordinary cat when it stopped attacking, to hiss and arch its back at them. John and Molly both jumped into action shooing the cat away now that the initial surprise had worn off. Sherlock, however, picked up the dropped matches from the floor, lit one, and held it to the candle's wick.

His intent was to simply hurry them along, but as the wick caught alight, it glowed orange for only a moment before flickering into an impossibly dense black. "Ummm..." Sherlock ran through the chemistry files in his mind repository, trying desperately to find a combination of known elements that would create a flame such as this. Ethanol, alcohols and natural gas burned blue. Boric acid and antifreeze would create a green flame, but nothing... _nothing_ creates black flame.

"Umm..." Sherlock spoke a little louder, still staring at the burning candle.

The blonde cat had stopped hissing and also seemed focused on the candle. John and Molly finally looked over at him and gasped when they too saw the flame. A sudden gust of wind caused the front door to bang loudly against the wall, the same instant a bolt of lightning struck outside nearby, cutting the electricity and blanketing the cottage in darkness again - save for the odd low glow of the aptly named Black Flame Candle.

"Hide!" someone shouted, and the three teenagers dove behind exhibit cases and furniture without thinking to protest.

"AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!" A maniacal cackle erupted from the direction of the door.

Sherlock dared to peek out from behind his case. Three ominous figures stomped in, hunched over and grunting. They paused and straightened, a moment later the fireplace lit itself, illuminating the room. Another moment and other candles that had been left to moulder around the cottage also burst alight, much brighter than was natural.

The figures came into full view now, three haggard women; auburn, brunette and black-haired, all with streaks of grey and deeply wrinkled faces. Their clothing was tattered and of an era long gone.

"Nice job," a small voice whispered near his ear sarcastically. Not recognising it as Molly or John's he turned quickly and registered the blonde cat that had so recently been terrorising them. "This is your fault, you know that, right?" the cat asked, giving him a pointed look.

"You...what?" Sherlock gasped and blinked. This wasn't happening. He was hallucinating, surely. The candle's chemicals that made it burn black also caused him to hallucinate. Yes. That was it.

"Hey!" the cat hissed softly and pawed at his face to get his attention. Sherlock continued to marvel at the animal. "You have to get the spell book and get out of here!" the cat implored.

"Em," the brunette witch said suddenly sniffing, "there's someone here."

Mycroft looked around the cottage and tilted her chin up distastefully. "Obviously," she sneered. "Someone had to light the Black Flame Candle." She moved quickly, darting her arm behind the trunk John had crouched behind.

"Ah!" he shouted, "Ow! Ow!" He struggled to release himself from her grasp but was dragged out to the centre of the room.

"And who is this young squire?" Em asked with disdain.

"Uhhh, John. John Watson," he supplied. "Glad to have you back. Hope you settle in alright. I'll just leave you to it. Um...bye." He tried to walk out but couldn't escape her grasp.

"Nonsense," Em chirped, eerily pleased all of a sudden, tossing him into a large wooden arm chair. "You brought us back, you must have a reward."

"Oh, no, no," John protested. "That's not necessary. You probably have things to do."

Sherlock tore his eyes away from his friend in order to come up with a plan of escape. Whoever these women were, he knew he wanted nothing to do with them. He caught sight of Molly behind the next case over, similarly alert and worried. She looked at him now, glancing down at the cat still hanging by his side.

"We have to get out of here," he mouthed silently to her. She nodded and pointed to a spot over his head. He followed her gesture to the fire extinguisher hanging on the wall. Understanding, he crawled slowly across the floor to reach it, thankful that John's rambling - and was he actually flirting?! - was distracting the three sisters.

He unlatched the canister and shook it, hoping that it would still work after all these years. Stepping carefully forward, he adjusted his deerstalker and waited for the right moment.

The auburn woman lost her patience finally, "Enough chatter! Sisters, get the axe and prepare the cauldron. It's time for our reward."

"Oi!" John protested.

"I wouldn't bother with that," Sherlock spoke up, brandishing the fire extinguisher. The three sisters whipped around, startled. For an instant, Sherlock felt victorious, but then their eyes grew unnaturally dark and evil. Without a second thought he released the pin and squeezed the handle, directing the hose and, by default, fire suppression foam toward the sisters.

John ducked away in time and scampered toward the door while the sisters spluttered and shrieked in outrage. In the chaos, Molly leapt up, clutching an old broom. Sherlock ran out of foam and she charged forward, smacking indiscriminately at the sisters, knocking them over and clearing a path of escape, but breaking the broom with her force. Sherlock moved to follow her but was stopped by a sharp pain in his shin. The blonde cat had dug her front claws into his leg and looked up angrily at him.

"Get the spell book!" she shouted.

He gaped for a second before deciding to follow orders. With the fire extinguisher still in his hands he brought it down hard on the glass case holding the book. It shattered loudly, and he dug the book out of the rubble. He tried not to think about why it felt warm and clammy as he made his escape.

Molly was waiting for him in the doorway, shock written on her face. He didn't have time to deduce if it was because of the strange things that had just happened, the struggle to get out, or the fact that he was apparently stealing from an historic site.

"Go!" the cat shouted up at them, and neither one needed to be told twice before they were running out the door at full speed.


	5. Graveyard Smash

John was outside, ready to take off as well, and did just that when he saw his friends' speed. "This way," the cat directed them around a turn in the gravel path. The three humans looked at each other, making sure that the others had heard the same thing, but didn't slow at all.

They all leapt over the fallen tree, and maintained their breakneck speed until the cat led them all the way back to the edge of town and into the cemetery there. John squeezed through the gate first, and Sherlock paused to let Molly in ahead of him.

-

Mycroft got to her feet slowly, sore not just from four hundred years rest. The horrid female child had hit her rather hard on the bum. The mysterious white substance that the wretched male child had conjured was most malodorous, but apparently not dangerous. Phillipa wailed like a banshee next to her.

“Oh for God’s sake!” Mycroft kicked at her sister’s form. She hated that the John Watson creature had escaped, and hated Phillipa’s howling even more.

O

Anthea got to her feet as well, and tried in vain to get the offensive white potion off of her clothes. She observed the room, still unbelieving that they were actually back from hell. “What has happened to our beautiful home? ...Em, where’s your spell book?”

“We have been vandalised!” Mycroft shouted angrily, pointing at the shattered exhibit case that once held her precious volume. “Bring me those children! I want their guts for garters!”

-

“We’ll be safe in here,” Mary assured the humans, while staking out the graveyard. They were alone...for now.

“How on Earth will we be ‘safe’ in a very public, very open cemetery?! There’s no lock on that gate and hardly a headstone large enough to hide behind!” John shouted, breathing heavily and fully freaking out.

Molly wasn’t convinced herself that they were in fact ‘safe’...but then again, the promise came from the mouth of a cat...so...there was that.

John straightened up suddenly. “You...can talk,” he said dimly to Mary, eyes wide as saucers.

“I can,” she stated, sitting on her haunches.

John looked expectantly between Molly and Sherlock, and Molly could only frown for a second before the dots connected. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.

“What is it?” John gasped. Sherlock looked at Molly sharply but said nothing.

“You’re Mary Morstan Adams!”

“I am indeed,” Mary nodded. “Pleased to be making your acquaintance.”

She was astonished by the turn of events, but somehow it felt alright. John and Sherlock both narrowed their eyes at the cat, obviously not as okay with the situation.

Suddenly, Molly became aware of the sound of rushing wind behind her. Everyone turned at once to face the gates again, just as the Salemsbury sisters came into view. The witches hovered unnaturally over the ground as they steadily got closer. Molly took a step back when she realised the speed they were travelling, and almost trod on Mary’s tail.

“We’ll be fine,” Mary assured them all again. “They can’t set foot on hallowed ground.”

John snapped his head to the feline, “How do you know?! You ARE A CAT!”

“Do shut up, John,” Sherlock chastised. “You are attracting their attention even more.”

“I know because I’ve studied that book. And also yes, do shut up,” Mary agreed. “We need to stay calm to figure out a way to fix this.”

Molly chose to ignore the pointed look tiny Mary gave Sherlock, and the way he recoiled slightly from it. She was more preoccupied with the fact that the witches were now almost at the gates, slowing their speed gracefully. When the sisters came to a stop and just floated in the air, Molly almost burst into giggles. Mycroft was clutching the silver pole and lime green handle of a Swiffer sweeper, Anthea had a badly used mop between her knees, and Phillipa was straddling the extension nozzle of a Henry hoover that she was clutching almost protectively under her arm, with the hose wrapped around her body.

“Ahhh, Mary Adams,” Mycroft hissed, “Still alive I see! Prepared to watch these mortals die just like thy sister?”

“No!” Mary shouted firmly, her glossy fur coat standing on end. “You’ll not kill anyone else as long as I live!”

“Hmmm, we’ll see about that. Perhaps I’ll lift my curse and you’ll be the first to go.” Mycroft drew her eyes away from the children and Mary, and seemed to consider the surroundings before lighting up. “Ah! Sisters, look!” She pointed toward a near tomb that stood out from the other headstones arranged in neat rows. “It is our dear old friend. Shall we wake him up and say hello?”

Molly did not like the sound of that. Suddenly every zombie film she had ever seen flashed in front of her eyes. Her mind did a quick assessment of the fighting aptitude of her friends. Sherlock was book smart, she’d never seen him in any sort of demanding physical situation. And John possibly liked football? But he didn’t play in a league that she knew of. So they could maybe run, but not for very long, and they had no sharp weapons to speak of. Great.

Mycroft began chanting a rhyme about an old love returning, while Anthea and Phillipa just repeated, "Come back, come back," softly.

"Rise! RISE!” Mycroft finished, and Molly could feel the ground vibrating for several seconds. A moment later and the lid of the tomb slid off easily as one thin, and disgustingly dead hand pushed it away.

Molly gaped at the sight, more afraid than she’d ever been in her entire life. The tomb’s occupant sat up, his 17th century clothing all but disintegrated, his skin pale hanging loosely from his bones. This was NOT HAPPENING!

The zombie – and Molly really hated using the z-word even in her mind – turned and finally noticed the others present. “Mmarraaahhh,” he groaned, standing and stepping out of the stone tomb.

“Attack, you fool!” Mycroft shouted agitatedly.

The formerly-dead gentleman lumbered over toward the group. Molly sort of registered Mary hissing in his direction, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Suddenly a warm hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her backwards. Molly yelped and flailed until she realised it was John trying to get her to move.

Now back in action mode, she shuffled backward and looked for an escape route. The cemetery was surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence with only two openings. One, they were already standing near, the other was clear on the other side, and the witches were sure to follow if they fled the hallowed ground.

“Raahhhh,” the un-dead man was very near now.

“Run! There!” John shouted and pointed toward the centre of the graveyard.

Molly followed when John moved, but Sherlock did not. By the time she realised he wasn’t with them she was too far away to grab him and make him run. She watched in horror as the zombie lurched at Sherlock and grabbed his coat sleeve.

\--

Sherlock stood still and watched as the decaying man loomed closer. It was wholly unbelievable, but also the most fascinating thing he had ever seen in his entire life. He had read about scientist who had experimented with corpse reanimation, and studied the virus that caused it to occur in ants, but this was apparently the real thing. He should have been scared out of his mind like Molly and John no doubt were, but the rotting man moved so slowly, and Sherlock was quite adept at martial arts. He felt little risk of being transformed into a zombie himself. So he stood his ground and let the man hold his sleeve for support.

“I said ATTACK HIM, WIGGINSON!” Mycroft barked.

“You and your sisters can go to hell!” the man shouted at the women still floating outside the gates. Sherlock recoiled from the man’s wretched breath.

“Oh, we’ve been, thank you. We found it quite lovely there,” Mycroft said sarcastically.

“Hi,” Phillipa waved shyly. Sherlock recoiled again from the soppy tone in her voice.

Suddenly, a shot rang out and Phillipa almost went tumbling off her hoover nozzle.

“What the bloody hell?!” Mycroft exclaimed.

Sherlock saw Lestrade step out from behind a headstone, pointing a gun at the sisters. Lestrade squeezed the trigger and another shot ripped through the air, apparently striking Mycroft in the leg.

“BLAST!” she screamed and clutched her Swiffer, turning it and herself around in the air in retreat. Her sisters followed suit. “You win this one, puny mortals! But I’ll be back!”

Sherlock watched the women depart with more than a little satisfaction. This was an interesting development indeed.

“Sherlock! Step away from the...the...dead guy,” Lestrade stammered, now pointing his gun at the un-dead Wigginson.

“Awwwrrhh?” Wigginson growled in confusion.

“Relax, Gage. The late Mr. Wigginson is apparently on our side as it were,” Sherlock straightened haughtily, and made sure he was still gripping the spell book under his coat. “And where did you get that ridiculous gun?”

“It’s Greg,” Lestrade corrected, “And it’s just my little brother’s air rifle. I stole- I mean he let me borrow it.”

Just then, John, Molly, Sally and Mary the cat, arrived back at the gate, apparently ready to fight. “It’s fine, everything's fine. He's a good...something,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Donovan, when did you get here?”

“I was walking home with Greg. Who’s the dead guy?”

“May I introduce myself?” their malodorous companion bowed slightly. “Mr. William Wigginson at your service.”

“Nope,” Sherlock interjected, popping the ‘p’.

The other teenagers all looked at each other in confusion. Mr. Wigginson shifted nervously then sighed in resignation. “Bill...ugh... _alright!_ Billy Wigginson.” His posh accent dissolved into something decidedly more lower class.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mary gasped.

John, Molly and Sherlock looked at her for clarification, Sally and Lestrade looked at her in shock. Apparently they had not been privy to her ability to speak since their arrival on the scene.

“You _are_ Billy! You were found dead at the edge of Pendle Forest when I was not 15. Your toes had been cut off."

“Ah, yes,” Billy shifted self-consciously, “The other lads and I...we...well, they ran scared but _I knocked_ and they were long gone. And Phillipa answered...and she was...well,” Billy made a round motion with his hands at chest-height. “And I was of marrying age! ...Anyway, Mycroft discovered us and eventually killed me.”

“Well...you look good, mate.” John said casually, inspecting Billy.

“I’m sorry, can we please refocus?” Lestrade cut in tersely. “What the hell is going on here?”

Molly took a breath and summed up what had occurred between the party and the recent scuffle. She introduced Mary and retrieved the spell book from Sherlock by way of proof. The two late-comers blinked for a second after she finished, then seemed resigned to the weirdness of the night.

“So, we have to kill them,” Sally calmly stated, rather than asked.

“Yes,” Mary confirmed, “and I have an idea as to how.” The teens and their zombie all looked down at her expectantly. “We need to burn them."


	6. Something Strange in Your Neighbourhood

“And how do you propose we do that?!” Lestrade exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest, his bobby’s helmet set askew on his head. “We don’t exactly have public burnings any longer!”

“We don’t?” Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed.

“What the hell, Sherlock? Of course we don’t!”

“Ah, but you are mistaken, Gerald.” Everyone looked confusedly at him, except for Molly who was obviously trying to piece something together.

“Oh, my gosh!” She exclaimed a second later, her witches hat nearly tipping off her head. “Of course! Sherlock, that’s brilliant!” When the others continued to look confused she prepared to explain. “Remember, remember the fifth of November?”

“The gunpowder treason and plot!” John finished animatedly. “That _is_ brilliant! ...If not incredibly convenient as well.”

“Pray, hold on a moment,” Billy grunted. “You continue to celebrate this man for his failure?”

“Er, yeah.” Molly confirmed. “Though, the tone and sentiment have changed over the years. You’re more likely to find someone who wishes Fawkes had succeeded, than those cheering his demise.”

“So glad we’ve sorted that out.” Sherlock spoke again. “The town council has begun stashing wood for the public bonfires. All we need to do is assemble a pyre and lure them in.”

“And how precisely do we do that?” John asked. Everyone just silently looked expectantly at everyone else.

\--

Mycroft hopped off her Swiffer with a grunt, favouring the unharmed leg. “Those brats!” she snarled, entering their cottage again. Anthea and Phillipa followed closely behind. “First they destroy our brooms, then they steal my precious book! Now they bodily injure us! What have we ever done to them?!”

Anthea looked sideways at her eldest sister. She dared not point out that the witches had been planning on killing the Watson boy, and had put the cruel spell on Mary all those centuries ago. And that was just the beginning. If Mycroft had been allowed a moment to think she would have come up with ways to kill and/or torture all of the children in Pendle and most of the adults.

Phillipa doted on Mycroft, helping her to sit in her favourite chair, offering to whip up a meal of rat tail Bolognese.

Anthea decided to reorganise their potion ingredient storage. It had obviously been rearranged while they were gone, and surely most of the ingredients would have gone off by now. Rolling her eyes and huffing internally she got to work.

\--

“Well, they seem to like their spell book an awful lot,” Billy offered, leaning back on his tomb casually. The teens were all similarly reclining or sitting nearby, except for Sally and Sherlock. The former was on her mobile convincing her mum to let her stay out a little longer,  her costume’s cape fluttering elegantly behind her. The later was pacing along the path, deep in thought.

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed suddenly. “Burn the book!”

“What?” Molly gasped. She had been thumbing through its pages for several minutes. It was very oddly written, and the fact that she knew it was bound in human skin did nothing to improve her opinion of it, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to be alright with destroying an historical document.

“We need to burn the book! It’s the source of their powers,” Mary explained. “After the Salmesbury sisters were hanged the villagers tried burning it.”

“Successful was it?” Lestrade asked sarcastically.

“You can’t just burn it,” Billy interjected. “Phillipa told me Mycroft put a protection spell on it. That needs to be removed first.”

“And how do we do that?” John asked. Billy just shrugged in response.

“I bet it’s in here,” Molly said casually. “There’s a spell or potion for everything in here.”

Just then, Sally hung up and rejoined the group. “I have to go home,” she said sullenly. “Mum’s not budging.” Some of the others made sympathetic noises.

“There’s a spell for that,” Molly interjected excitedly, flipping back in the book. “Novocerebrum: Influencing Minds,” she read from the page.

“You can read that?” Sally wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes at the spell.

“Yeah, it’s a bit weird,” Molly admitted, “but it couldn’t hurt, right?”

“I wouldn’t,” John said nervously, for some reason looking to Mary for reassurance. “Would it hurt?”

Molly looked down at the feline too, waiting to be reprimanded or warned off. But Mary just sat looking back at her for a moment. “No,” she said slowly, “it couldn’t hurt.”

So Molly returned her attention to the pages open before her and began reciting the strange combinations of words. They were written as if they had been translated word for word from another language, without going back to correct syntax and conjunctions. When she finished she looked up and smiled softly. Sally, John, Billy and Lestrade all chuckled slightly, Mary continued to sit and watch her, Sherlock had also stopped pacing to tap at his mobile.

The relative silence was broken when Sally’s text alert sounded. She gasped in surprise before realising and relaxing enough to read the text. “Holy sh-“ she stopped herself from swearing in front of everyone else. “My mum changed her mind! I don’t believe this.” A chorus of surprised and impressed hums echoed through the others. “She _never_ changes her mind. I’m allowed another hour out. Dad must have convinced her.”

“That was brilliant, Molly!” John said brightly.

“Just a funny coincidence,” Molly laughed it off.

“We’re getting nowhere,” Sherlock spoke up. “I need to research something.”

\--

Anthea had begun work on reorganising the bookshelves while Mycroft lounged dramatically on her bed by the window. Phillipa mopped her brow with a damp cloth and cooed stupidly.

Anthea was reshelving the last of the medieval histories, fictions and poems when she stopped short. The book she was now holding almost made her tear up. It had been a gift over four centuries ago. She dusted it off and slowly opened the front cover, careful of the fragile binding. The inscription was amazingly still legible.

_“Where shall we four meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won. That will be ere the set of sun. Do make haste, dear Anthea. Complete the switch. Until it is finally faced, will you be a good or bad witch? – Eglantine Salmesbury, 1601”_

The day her second youngest sister left for Stratford-upon-Avon was still seared in her mind. Mycroft being the eldest had grown up with an inflated sense of self. Her early aptitude in the dark arts made their parents enormously proud. Anthea and Eglantine were practically twins, having been born barely 10 months apart, and carrying most of the same genetic traits. The most noticeable difference between them was their eyes. Where Mycroft, Phillipa, and Anthea’s were blue, Eglantine’s were brown.

Mycroft shot up in her bed, the same instant a shudder ran up Anthea’s spine, and Phillipa clutched her ample chest and gasped.

“My book,” Mycroft whispered. “My precious book!”

\--

Sherlock had picked many locks in his day, and the exterior one to their school’s library was possibly the easiest he’d ever set his tools to. He’d been considering stealing the headmistress’s keys to make copies for himself, but if this was representative of the rest of their school’s security it wasn’t worth it.

The library was dimly lit but they dared not turn the main lights on for fear of attracting attention to the break-in. “Find every book that mentions the Salemsbury sisters. I need to know how they came to have...power.” While the amazing things of this evening were undisputedly unnatural, he couldn’t bring himself to use the word ‘magic’ just yet.

Using their phone screens as torches and spreading themselves out in the history section, John, Lestrade and Sally browsed through the titles. Molly leant an elbow on to the spell book while she used one of the computers dedicated to the library’s catalogue. Sherlock set to work at one of the stations set up for internet usage. It took only an instant to bypass the security wall limiting his access. Mary and Billy just watched everyone, having never been in a place like this before.

A few moments later and the others started to trickle back together holding books they thought may be relevant. Sally and Lestrade only found the same well-known story of the sister’s hanging regurgitated in several local history books. John actually found one book that had a copy of their death certificates. But there was little else to be had, even on the internet. Town records had been transferred to Burley in the mid-1950’s.

“The catalogue listed another book that might have something else,” Molly offered from her perch on the computer stool. “But it’s written in French. Qui a étudié le français?” she asked, looking at her friends. “Non? C’est moi? D’accord.” Sherlock almost laughed out loud as she stood, still holding on to the sister’s spell book, and walked to the relevant section.

Almost as soon as Molly disappeared behind the correct shelving unit he heard her gasp loudly.

“Bonjour!” a familiarly evil voice sounded from the same aisle. “Je veux mon livre!” Mycroft practically shouted as Molly reappeared, running at full speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost forgot to mention the inscription from Eglantine is a bastardised version of the opening verses from MacBeth.


	7. Welcome to my Nightmare

Molly’s heart was in her throat as she sprinted the length of the library back to the door. “RUN!” she shouted at her friends who had just been staring wide-eyed. They all seemed to blink out of their stupor in unison before similarly beginning to move and making it out the door before her. Molly’s witch hat flew off her head a few meters from the exit but she didn’t have time to worry about it.

A gasp from her left made her panic and pause momentarily to find the source of the noise. When she saw Anthea and Phillipa popping up behind a low bookshelf, Molly didn’t hesitate to leave. As she finally breathed fresh air, Sherlock slammed the library door closed behind her, and jammed some wood underneath to prevent it being easily opened.

“Might give us a few more seconds,” he explained, clasping her arm and ushering her to follow the rest of their group in running for their lives.

\----

Anthea stood still, staring at the back of the door the young woman had just rushed out of. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed before, but then again, the odd hat had obscured the girl’s face for their few interactions. She turned to her youngest sister, in disbelief. Phillipa’s eyes were narrowed at the spot too, apparently trying to piece something together. A second later she gasped and turned to Anthea, ready to voice what they were both thinking.

“Sisters!” Mycroft shrieked, suddenly right next to the other two Salemsbury witches. “After them!”

“Em,” Anthea began, not sure what exactly to say. “Did you see...the girl...she looked just like-“

“Shut your mouth!” Mycroft looked threateningly at her sister. It was a look Anthea knew well.

“Eglantine!” Phillipa exclaimed happily, apparently completely missing her eldest sister’s wrathful stare.

“I SAID SHUT YOUR MOUTH!” Mycroft boomed, her voice echoing off the library walls. “We do not speak that traitor’s name! She betrayed us by breaking our circle! You KNOW what we were born to be and SHE LEFT!”

“She left because of YOU!” Anthea shouted back. Not once in their century of life had she spoken up to Mycroft, and Em gaped at her in response. “You didn’t listen to her,” Anthea continued a little more calmly.

Mycroft seemed to come back to herself and growled at her younger sisters. “I didn’t have to listen to her,” she said in a low and aggressive voice. “Have you forgotten the position of thy birth?! I am the high witch in this family! You all bow down to _me_ and my superior powers!”

Anthea could see little sparks of static flicking between Mycroft’s fingers. Their powers still existed, but at a drained state with the book so far away. She could feel in herself her magic’s diminished level, but Mycroft had indeed always been the most powerful. And surely she could still inflict some pain on her insolent sisters.

A sudden purple shock to her body held Anthea in place where she stood. Her bones felt like they were splintering under her skin and she could just hear Phillipa groaning in pain next to her.

“You will do as I say!” Mycroft commanded. “Those horrible mortals still hold my book. If we do not possess it by midnight we are dust! Dost thou _comprehend_?!”

The excruciating bind around Anthea released and she almost fell to the ground. As much as she disagreed with Mycroft, she knew Em was right this time. If they couldn’t get the book back soon their powers would disappear and they’d return to hell. As long as the book existed they could be brought back again and again, but of course only on All Hallow’s Eve (the day they died four centuries ago), and only for as long as they held the book.

Anthea looked at Mycroft and nodded slowly. This is how it had to be. It was the path she had chosen for herself after all.

\--

Molly continued to follow the others as they cleared street after street away from the school. She almost wanted to laugh at the strangeness of their group. The undead Billy in his 17th century rags had no trouble keeping up with John and Lestrade, who led the pack. Mary was surprisingly spry for a centuries-old feline and easily kept pace with Sally, whose cape fluttered almost elegantly behind her. Sherlock remained at Molly’s side, occasionally shouting a direction change and glancing behind to check if they were being followed. By the time he called for them all to slow, Molly’s lungs were starting to burn and her arms had long ago begun aching from carrying the witches spell book.

“I don’t think they followed us,” Sherlock informed everyone.

“They might be planning their next attack, so we need to plan ours,” Mary spoke up.

“Molly, can you find if the book explains how to lift the protection spell?” John asked, removing his flat cap to wipe his brow and still catching his breath.

“Of course,” Molly answered, “I thought I saw it before when I was flipping through. Ah, here. See?” She pointed at the page and offered the book for others to look at it. A few of them squinted at the pages for a second.

“I can’t read it,” Sally said, “but if you can, that’s great. We should get the bonfire going as plan B.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock nodded, directing them all to cut through an ally across the street. “We’re nearly to the centre of town and there’s a wood pile in the field behind the Inn.”

“Oh hey, my parents are at that party,” Lestrade spoke up.

“Oh yeah, mine too,” John said nodding. “And Mrs. Hudson, right Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes, and Molly’s mum and more than half the adults in town,” Sherlock said tetchily.

“Well, aren’t we putting them at risk, dragging the witches there?” John asked slightly worried.

“That’s a good point, mate,” Lestrade agreed. “Are there any, I don’t know, ways to protect against the witches? They didn’t seem to like the lead in my air rifle pellets but I only have two left.”

“There was a sort of index of ingredients I think.” Molly flipped through pages of the book. “Some of them listed different uses or properties. Like, was it...salt! Yes, ‘A circle of salt will protect against thy power,’ evil spirits can’t cross the line, et cetera.”

“Right, well, salt it is.”

It happened that in addition to being close to the Inn, they were also fairly close to some of their homes. They stopped first at Lestrade’s who emerged a little sheepishly with only a small shaker. Then Molly’s, whose mother had recently gone through a bath product-making phase and had several types of salt in bulk. She needed help juggling the large containers as well as the spell book that everyone had silently agreed she was now custodian of. Finally, John and Sherlock rushed in and out of their homes with an economy-sized canister each.

With their salty protection in hand they quickly made their way to the Inn. While Billy and Sherlock built up the bonfire, the rest set to work surrounding the Inn and their work area with a ring of salt. Mary stood watch for any sign of the witches who were sure to show their faces eventually. When the salting was finished they all gathered around the bonfire, now glowing brightly.

“You ready, Molly?” Mary asked.

“Wait, _me_?” she balked. Sure, she had been reading the spell book but she didn’t see why she had to be the one to do anything with it.

“Yes,” Mary said seriously. “There’s something I wasn’t sure about, but then you...well, I haven’t told you the whole story yet.”

“What whole story?”

“The story about how you may be a witch.”

Molly gaped at the blonde cat, sure that she must be hearing things. Everyone else was remarkably quiet. “A who now?”

“A witch. Related to the Salmesbury sisters no less. Well, decedents of them.”

“But...they were spinsters...weren’t they?” Sally asked.

“Mycroft, Anthea and Phillipa were childless,” Mary confirmed, “but they had another sister. One who left them.”

“Ah!” Billy gasped suddenly, looking at Molly. “Eglantine!” Mary nodded at him and returned her blue eyes to Molly. “Phillipa had a secret portrait of her. I thought you looked familiar!”

“Eglantine was apparently a good witch and left her evil sisters to live her own life. The rumour was that she moved to Scotland and had a family. No one knew for sure of course.”

“So what? So I look sort of like a girl from four centuries ago? That doesn’t mean anything.”

“On its own, no, but you can read the book,” Mary said urgently. “No one has ever been able to read that book besides the Salmesbury sisters. Scholars tried and failed for years to translate the foreign tongue.”

“Foreign? What? It’s English. Granted, it’s weird English with some Latin mixed in but there’s nothing special about...” Molly trailed off as light suddenly began to dawn. The others hadn’t been lying when they said they couldn’t read it. It wasn’t syntax issues or the swirly calligraphy. It was a language she could apparently read and speak instinctively. “You’re not saying...I’m...I’m a...”

“WITCH!” Mycroft screamed from the horizon.


	8. This Is Halloween

Sherlock noticed the witches were no longer flying. Something seemed off when they appeared in the library as well. It was as if they were becoming less powerful as the night wore on. And if his observations, as the sisters strode toward the group, were correct, they would very soon be completely without power.

“Sally,” Sherlock called, “protect Molly while she lifts the spell!” Sally nodded and ushered Molly further away from where the witches were approaching. “John, Billy, take these,” Sherlock handed each of them a flaming torch made from branches and pieces of Billy’s rotted jacket tied on the ends. “If they get too close...well...obviously burn them. Grant, I had these lead pellets at home for science experiments. They should be the right size for your air rifle. Mary, you’re with me. You and I will distract the witches by any means necessary. ...Do you understand?” he looked pointedly at the cat. He knew she couldn’t die unless the witches made her, but his own life seemed not so significant at the moment as he watched Molly stand up, book in hand.

\--

“So what do you have to do to lift the spell?” Sally asked, kneeling with Molly and keeping an eye on the quick approach of the witches.

“Thankfully all things we seem to have. Sweat from the brow of a dead man, blood from a loved one mixed with thine, and three strands of fur from feline,” she answered.

“Well that’s convenient. Who’s the loved one’s blood?” Sally asked quietly.

“Oh, umm,” Molly glanced at Sherlock who was handing something to Lestrade and apparently hadn’t heard the question. “I guess I could find my mum inside. Although, having to explain...”

“Don’t be dense, Molly,” Sally said pointedly, “I was just trying to get you to say it,” she nodded her head toward Sherlock talking to Mary. “He’s right here and you don’t actually have to tell him the truth.”

“What? Oh...I, uh...” Molly glanced at the witches who were almost on the group, shooting sparks that fell just short of the salt circle. She had no choice if she wanted this to be done quickly. He never had to know. “I need something to make us bleed,” she said calmly, not turning away from the witches.

Sally looked puzzled for only a second before she brightened and unfastened the clasp holding her cape around her neck. It had a rather sharp pin back that would work. The book didn’t specify the amount of blood needed and Molly could only hope a few drops would do the trick.

Molly stood up quickly, marking the page of the book with her finger as she held it in front of her like a priest holding the gospel. She rushed toward Billy first, who was successfully keeping Anthea at bay.

“Billy!” she called and he turned it head quickly, almost knocking himself out on the cover of the book as Molly held it too close to him. “Oh my gosh I’m so sorry!” Molly apologised quickly, patting him on his bony shoulder before ducking to dodge a pink spark from Phillipa.

Mary had been kicking up dust and distracting the youngest Salemsbury sister while John poked his torch at Phillipa if she got too close to their salt circle.

“Mary,” Molly stage whispered at the feline, “I’m so sorry, I need some of your fur.” Mary nodded and presented her side for Molly to take as much as she wanted, but didn’t take her eyes off Phillipa.

Molly was thankful Mary was apparently getting her winter coat in and was probably fluffier than usual. She collected several loose strands just by brushing her free hand over Mary’s back. She stuck them to the spot on the spell book’s cover where Billy’s sweat had left a grimy stain. Then she turned her attention to Sherlock who was throwing small bits of flaming wood at all three witches, but especially Mycroft, while he and Lestrade dodged her green sparks. Occasionally, Lestrade would get a shot off with his brother’s air rifle, sometimes grazing Mycroft’s shoulder, sometimes missing her completely. When he got a hit, Mycroft would screech and carry on.

“Mary, I need to borrow Sherlock. Can you...I don’t know...do something.”

“Don’t worry, I’m on it,” Mary assured her. She took a few steps toward the eldest sister then turned to pick up a small piece of wood in her mouth that was partially on fire on one end. She then launched herself at Mycroft, leaving the safety of the circle of salt.

Molly wanted to stop and make sure Mary was okay, but she also knew she had to continue with her vital task. She skipped around the fire to where Sherlock was watching Mary’s attack. They had stumbled away from the bright glow of the fire and into the darkness of the night. Only the bobbing flame showed any hint of what was happening.

“Sherlock,” Molly grabbed his arm, trying to speak quickly despite her increasing panic and shortness of breath. “I need your blood.”

“My what?” he asked, still not wanting to turn his attentions away from the continued attack from the other two witches, not to mention the cacophony of noise coming from Mary and Mycroft’s battle.

“You forget you can’t kill me!” Mary’s voice could be heard a few meters away, antagonising the witch.

“We’ll see about that!” Mycroft responded slightly further away, her evil tone not being lost on anyone.

“Your blood. Prick your finger, please,” she handed Sherlock Sally’s pin. He paused for a second but followed through as asked, holding his finger aloft with its bead of blood on the end. “And mine please,” she held up the index finger on her free hand. He furrowed his brow but cradled her hand in his, avoiding wiping the beading blood on her, then pressed the tip of the pin into the pad of her finger. It began to bleed almost immediately, creating an identical bead to the one Sherlock still sported.

\--

Sherlock looked at her expectantly and when her eyes met his finally, his breath caught in his throat. He was suddenly struck by how incredibly brave she had been all evening. He of course, couldn’t believe in any of this... _magic_ business, but there was nothing to do but fight. He suddenly had the urge to kiss her, and just as he looked down at her lips, she grabbed his hand, pushed their (literally) bloody fingers together, and then smeared them both on the front cover of the spell book.

He watched her flip the book open to where she had marked the spot with her finger. She scanned the page, and then said a few strange words he didn’t understand. They both stared at the tome as it began to glow blue. Soon the glow changed to white before fading completely.

A roar from the darkness drew their attention away from the now apparently unprotected spell book. A large gust of wind followed quickly, depleting the circle of salt. Before he could mend the bare patch, Anthea dove at Molly, knocking Sherlock away. A large green spark hit the ground right where he and Molly had been standing. Sherlock wield around and grabbed the untouched end of a half-flaming log on the pyre, ready to lob it at the witch.

He could only just make out through the flames, Molly trying to sit up. He caught sight of Anthea and took aim. He paused, however, when he saw Anthea herself throw the book into the blaze, watching it catch and throw green light in all directions. He swore he heard faint screaming coming from the flames

“YOU! HORRIBLE INGRATE!” Mycroft screamed, standing just outside the now broken protection line. Her hair was a wild mess and she never looked so menacing. “THOU TRAITOROUS, FEN-SUCKED KNAVE! I SHALL RIP THY LIMBS FROM THY BODY!”

Anthea straightened and faced her sister. Time almost seemed to slow down as everyone watched their face-off. Even Phillipa stood still in shock.

“I am prepared sister,” Anthea said calmly, raising her left arm slowly. “Have at thee.” She lunged forward in a flash, grabbing her eldest sister’s arm and pulling her forward. Mycroft shouted and struggled, but Anthea held on tightly and pulled them both into the fire.

Their bodies caught alight instantly, and a second later exploded into purple dust. Everyone gasped as the two witches disappeared. Phillipa shrieked, causing everyone to turn to her. After a moment, she seemed to register their eyes on her and walked purposefully into John’s still outstretched torch. Her body caught alight as quickly as her sisters’ had, then burst into purple dust.

\--

Molly finally stood, aching from being pushed to the ground by Anthea, and still in complete disbelief of the events of the evening.

“Huh,” Sally spoke up, “finished the job before my midnight curfew. Well done, all.”

Molly glanced down at her wristwatch. It was indeed ten minutes to midnight. She felt momentarily numb realising the knowledge she had just gained of her ancestry, and the loss of the power she could have had. She was descendent from a good witch, a loving healer...and she had just met her evil great-great-great aunts.  

“You can still be good and _do_ good, Molly,” Sherlock whispered into her ear. She hadn’t noticed him move closer to check on her. He took her hand in his and held it firmly as he looked into her eyes.

“Wait,” John spoke, “where’s Mary?” He held his torch aloft and waved it at the darkness, apparently still a little frightened of moving out further. A moment later he gasped and pointed into the blackness.

Molly followed his gesture and noticed a pale figure stepping slowly forward. The figure’s white dress blew gently in the breeze, and her blonde hair glistened in the firelight.

“Mary,” John whispered almost reverently. “Are you...a ghost? I mean...are you dead?”

Mary smiled and laughed lightly. She took a few more slow steps forward. “Apparently, not,” she said at last, “I’m bloody freezing!”

Everyone at least chuckled at that. She explained how Mycroft lifted the spell, solely to be able to kill her. And Mary did appear to be a real live human. Molly had to admit that she was a rather pretty one at that. However, her night chemise was no match for her former coat of silky fur for the chilly night air. She warmed herself by the fire and John offered her his jumper, which she happily accepted.

Voices from the inn drew everyone’s attention away from the now-human Mary.

“We should probably go,” Lestrade suggested, hiding his air rifle behind his back.

“Excellent idea,” Sherlock agreed, and with their hands still clasped, he tugged Molly away from the fire.

John and Billy dropped their flaming torches and followed them. When they were all a safe distance away from the adults, someone remarked about what was going to happen to Billy. Mary could fit in as a human – and could even live with Molly – but a zombie was something else.

“I’m actually feeling rather weak,” Billy said. “I might just lay down in my tomb if that’s alright.”

They had just made it to the cemetery when Billy flopped on his grave, lost consciousness, and his apparent reanimated life. Just then Sally’s ring tone pierced the air.

“Oh shit, it’s exactly midnight. My mum’s going to go mental,” she groaned.

“We’re almost to your house, we can run,” Lestrade offered. “I’ll come with you.” So the two set off together into the night at a light jog, Sally pressing her mobile to her ear and trying to explain to her mother that she was almost there.

The remaining four glanced at each other and half-smiled before turning toward Molly’s – and now Mary’s – home. Sherlock and Molly remained hand-in-hand for the entirety of the walk.

“Listen,” John said eagerly, turning to Mary once they had reached the front garden. “My sister’s about your size. My mum just made her go through her old wardrobe and set aside the things that could go to charity. Harry was livid about it for some reason, but I’m sure she did it. Anyway, there’s got to be clothes in there you could have.”

Molly squinted her eyes at John, picking up on the subtle changes in his demeanour. His charm was turned up to full capacity, something she had watched him do with Jeanette earlier in the evening. But he was also making excuses to stay near Mary. All signs pointed to his being absolutely smitten.

“You could come over right now!” John exclaimed.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock spoke up. “She’d love to come by tomorrow, I’m sure. Molly you’d come too, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, that’d be great!” Mary grinned. “I’m a bit knackered.”

“Yes, me as well,” Molly agreed. “And I’d be happy to help tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock straightened. “I was thinking of beginning a study on the tensile strength of different yarns and threads. You could assist me if that would be of interest.”

“Of course!” Molly chirped. She beamed up at him and John and Mary’s chatter seemed to fade into the background.

Slowly, he leaned down, drawing her nearer to him as he pressed his cheek into hers. “You are my clever little white witch,” he whispered in her ear before giving her a peck on the cheek.

Molly felt warmed all over, and couldn’t stop the grin from breaking out on her face as he squeezed her hand and walked away, dragging his friend behind him.


End file.
